


The Symposium

by orphan_account



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: F/M, Greek Mythology - Freeform, Latin, M/M, Socrates - Freeform, crackfic, plato - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-26
Updated: 2013-02-26
Packaged: 2017-12-03 16:26:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/700294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It all starts with Alain de Botton.</p>
<p>In which Harry strives to become cultured, but instead is mostly just infuriating; Zayn is far more cultured than Harry without even trying; Liam is annoyed, and then he's worried, and then he's annoyed again; and Niall and Louis think that hipsters are a bad influence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Symposium

It all starts with Alain de Botton. The boys don’t know that he’s to blame, to begin with; in fact, at the beginning of it all, they hardly notice that anything is even amiss. Harry’s a little more pensive than usual, perhaps. Nothing major, but Liam begins to wonder if something happened at the party Harry had attended the night before. So he asks him.

“It wasn’t so much a party,” Harry says, with an uncharacteristically superior inflection to his tone. “More of a, shall we say, symposium.” 

Liam doesn’t think that they should call it a ‘symposium,’ because Liam doesn’t know what the word ‘symposium’ means. However, he decides not to dwell on Harry’s odd behaviour; often Harry can be a bit strange after having spent time with his other friends.

“Okay,” he says, rather than interrogating Harry any further. “I’m glad that you had a nice time.”

He tries to edge out of the room so as to spend time with a more engaging member of the band; Harry doesn’t seem to be in much of an entertaining mood today. However, he is stopped when Harry flourishes his hand and lets out a dramatic sigh. 

“Nice!?” he exclaims, clearly affronted. “It was more than nice, Liam. I have been enlightened!”  


Liam stares at him. “Alright,” he says. “Good. I’m going to go find Zayn.”

\--

Liam finds Zayn huddled in the corner of a couch with an earphone in one of his ears and his eyes firmly shut.

“Zayn,” he says, “do you know what a symposium is?”

Zayn doesn’t open his eyes. “It depends,” he replies. “If you mean, like, Plato’s Symposium, or whatever, then it’s basically just a drinking party. But I guess nowadays people sometimes use it to mean a meeting of some sort.”

Liam nods, and then remembers that Zayn’s eyes are shut.

“Oh,” he says, “I think I was thinking more along the lines of Plato’s Symposium, then.”

Zayn’s eyes open as he finally deigns to show an interest in the conversation. “Why were you thinking about Plato’s Symposium? Were you wanting to read it? You don’t even like reading books that are meant for teenagers, Liam, I’m pretty sure you don’t want to read Plato.”

Liam thinks he should probably be offended by this slight to his reading ability. He’s read loads of things. Comic books definitely count. “Harry was saying that he went to a symposium yesterday. Not a party,” he tells Zayn, instead of defending himself.

Zayn’s interest dies down immediately. “Probably heard one of his hipster friends talking philosophy. Nothing to worry about,” he says dismissively.

\--

As it turns out, Zayn is very wrong. The next day, he stumbles across Harry reading a book with a very familiar cover. 

“The Hobbit!” Zayn exclaims. “Man, you don’t know how excited I am to see you reading The Hobbit. I’ve been wanting to discuss the movie with someone who’s actually read the book, you know.”

Harry lowers the book and surveys Zayn with a haughty expression. “It’s not just The Hobbit, Zayn,” says Harry disdainfully. “This, of course, is Hobbitvs Ille.”  


Zayn blinks at Harry. “Is that… Latin?” he asks.

“Of course, Zayn. I find it tragic how Latin has become a dead language. I thought I might challenge myself to read The Hobbit in Latin, so as to further the cause of reviving such a beautiful tongue.”

“Right,” says Zayn. “But you… you don’t speak Latin, do you, Harry?”

Harry purses his lips. “I suppose you would see it that way, wouldn’t you? But as they say, Zayn, ‘floreat Harrius Styles – puer qui cantaut!’”

“Alright, then, Harrius. I’ll leave you to your reading,” Zayn replies, unconcernedly.

\--

“Have you noticed anything strange about Harry lately?” Niall asks, pulling Louis back after tour rehearsals a few days later.

“Harry is a strange bloke, my dear Niall,” Louis says. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

“Well, like, okay. The other day Zayn was saying that Drake is basically a god of music, right? And Harry said, I kid you not, ‘That is absurd, Zayn. As we know from the Homeric Hymn to Apollo, “Apollo plays on his lyre, to lead the dance and the singing.” It is therefore Apollo, not Drake, who is the true god of music.’ Or something like that, anyway. It was weird.”

“I knew that hanging out with all those hipsters was unhealthy for him,” Louis says. “Let us hope that this is a phase that soon passes, because I have a feeling that it will become very obnoxious very quickly.” 

Niall’s phone buzzes in his hand. “Probably one of the boys, wondering what’s taking us so long,” he says, glancing carelessly at it. 

Then he does a double take. 

“As Plato says in his Republic,” Niall reads aloud, “’The direction in which education starts a man will determine his future life.’ How would you feel this philosophy applies to our band name ‘One Direction’?”

“What a prat,” says Louis. “Hold on a minute, I’ll text Liam and tell him to give Harry a smack.”

“No, but what the hell?” says Niall, “Like, seriously, what the hell.”

“Don’t worry, Nialler, if we give him a hard enough time about it, he’ll stop eventually,” says Louis, voice filled with confidence.

\--

Harry doesn’t stop. 

Over the next few weeks, they have to endure snippets of Latin, anecdotes about gods, and quotes from a variety of philosophers. 

“Ego vos hortor ut amicitiam omnibus rebus humanis anteponatis,” he quips blithely, two weeks into tour, when Niall comments that he’d trade any of his friends for a home-cooked meal. He doesn’t seem the least put out by the glares thrown his way.

While talking about their show in Paris, he comments, “I’d love to have time to visit the Louvre – think of all the wonderful paintings. And of course, the famous Venus de Milo, what a treat that would be. As I’m sure you know, Venus is the Roman equivalent of the Greek goddess, Aphrodite. So many wonderful works of art exist in her name. I, myself, am quite fond of The Dressing Room of Venus – you know, the François Boucher piece? I visited the painting on one of our trips to New York, what an experience. Do you seriously not know it? Honestly, Zayn, I thought you enjoyed art.”

His condescension is beginning to get on everybody’s nerves. One day, they have to ban him from eating lunch with them when Liam offers him some pomegranate and he exclaims “I shall not be taken for a fool, like poor Persephone! If you are the Hades of One Direction, then I might forever be trapped half the year in the Underworld!” 

“Have you quite finished?” Louis asks, but it quickly becomes clear that Harry is only getting started.

\--

Liam loves being on tour. All of the boys do. Being on stage with four amazing friends, seeing the world, living the dream – it’s absolutely incredible, and Liam would never like to think that he’s being ungrateful or taking the experience for granted. Unfortunately, being on tour also means a lot of time sitting around in a tour bus. The five of them are quite rich now, and their tour bus is a comfortable one, but comfort doesn’t matter much when it’s an eight hour drive and you’re trapped in the bus with an obnoxious twat. 

Liam doesn’t like to have such thoughts; Harry’s one of his best mates, and he knows he shouldn’t be thinking about him so negatively. It’s just hard when, out of nowhere, one of your friends starts acting like he’s better than you. Harry’s become smug and pretentious, and somehow it gets to the point where even just the sight of him thumbing through a copy of Camus’ The Outsider is enough to make Liam want to hit something. 

Unfortunately, Harry doesn’t seem to notice any of this antipathy. 

“Liam!” he cries, when he glances up and catches sight of Liam trying to tiptoe past unnoticed. 

“Harry,” Liam replies, tone devoid of enthusiasm. He drops himself heavily beside Harry on the couch, resigning himself to an hour or so of utter agony.

“What a lovely read this is, Liam,” Harry says pompously. “Camus sure had a brilliant mind. Absurdism! I delight in it!”

Liam makes an uninvolved sound of acknowledgement in the back of his throat, but his disinterest does nothing to deter Harry. Liam tunes out for a while, mind disengaging as Harry prattles on. 

“I mean, really, when you think about it, it’s terribly pathetic how much we let routine rule our lives,” Harry is saying when Liam’s brain begins to switch back on, “even us, with our hectic schedules – we still have some degree of routine. Why are we –”

Liam’s mind is just beginning to wander again when, mercifully, Zayn intercedes. 

“Alright?” he says casually, lowering himself to sit on Liam’s lap. Zayn eyes the book in Harry’s hand shrewdly, and cuts him off before he has a chance to try to convert him to an absurdist way of thinking. 

“Camus, huh? Heard he’s good. Shame you didn’t bother to go all out and read it in the original French, though. It probably would have made the experience of reading it more, uh… authentic .”

Zayn’s words hit Harry like a slap in the face. Liam struggles to contain his laughter as Harry splutters indignantly about French books being difficult to come by.

“Yeah,” Zayn says. “Yeah, I’m sure you’re too busy hanging out at the Louvre and the Musée d’Orsay when we’re in France. No worries, I think we’re going to Québec soon, maybe you can buy some Sartre.”

Harry scowls at Zayn. “Maybe I will,” he says huffily, before storming off to his bunk.

“Zayn Malik, my hero,” Liam sighs, pretending to swoon. Then he shoves Zayn off of his lap and onto Harry’s vacated spot on the couch.

\--

After this, Harry seems to let up some. There are still moments when he’ll say something infuriatingly pretentious – “di magni, salaputium disertum!” he’d yelled once, after Louis had given a particularly heartfelt in-concert speech – but for the most part, he’s acting as normally as he ever had before.

Then, one day, he comes to sound check with a new tattoo, and it becomes evident that they’d been lulled into a false sense of security. To be fair, it’s one of his better quality tattoos. It’s certainly not as silly as some of the little ones he’s got, and the artwork is impressive. It’s the implications of the tattoo that have them worried. 

“New ink,” says Zayn, ill-advisedly, “nice.”

“Not just any ink,” Harry says, with a slightly fanatical edge to his voice. “An ouroboros.”

“What’s an ouroboros?” says Niall, without thinking. 

Harry looks delighted.

“Well,” he says, in a tone that forewarns an extensive lecture on the subject, “An ouroboros is –”

“Never mind,” says Niall quickly. “I can see what it is; it’s a snake eating its own tail.”

Harry is undeterred. “Plato was the first to mention it,” he says, “In his Timaeus. It’s all very fascinating. He describes how its own waste provides its food, and –”

The boys begin to ignore Harry, opting instead to glare at Niall for having instigated this lecture. Louis, Liam, and Niall are so wrapped up with being bored that they almost don’t notice when Zayn interrupts Harry. 

“Actually,” he corrects, not even bothering to look up from the piece of paper on which he is doodling, “I’m pretty sure that the earliest known representation of the ouroboros is from the Enigmatic Book of the Netherworld. You know, from the tomb of Tutankhamun and shit. That was, what, 13-something BC?” He pauses for a moment to let out a small laugh, before continuing. “Plato wasn’t around ‘til, like, 400 something BC, so yeah.” 

The rest of the boys stare at Zayn, who isn’t paying them any mind, and is instead concentrating on making the hair on his cartoon of Harry even bigger. The real Harry is dumbstruck, stunned into silence.

“Why on earth do you know that, mate?” Niall says, “Is that true?”

“Dunno,” says Zayn, adding a speech bubble to his drawing, “just pick up on stuff sometimes, doesn’t everyone?”

“Not stuff like that,” Liam replies. “I definitely don’t know anything like that.”

Zayn signs the drawing with a flourish and hands it to Harry. The caricature is wearing a shirt that reads “Prose Before Hoes!” The speech bubble says “I’m a massive twat.” 

Harry’s brow furrows. “Maybe I just care more about Greece than Egypt,” he says. “And I’m not a twat.”

He wanders off, presumably to find someone more appreciative of his knowledge of Plato and less likely to know enough, themselves, to correct him. Liam, Louis, and Niall continue to stare at Zayn, visibly impressed. 

“Can you please just outsmart him every time he does that?” Louis pleads. “Because that was pretty badass. I wanted to cheer.”

Zayn rubs his arm self-consciously. “Can’t be doing that all the time, you’ll get just as fed up of me as you are of him,” he says. “Besides. It’s just a fluke that I was able to best him that time; I don’t really know all that much.”

But Liam remembers Zayn teasing Harry about Sartre a week or so ago, and how he himself had had to ask Zayn who Sartre was later on; he remembers Zayn’s quiet excitement over the upcoming film version of The Great Gatsby – he’d passed it off as being excited to hear Jay-Z’s score for the film, but Liam had overheard him talking to his mom on the phone later that day, asking if she thought Carey Mulligan was suited to the role of Daisy. This whole time Harry’s been going off on a culture binge, Niall, Louis, and Liam have mainly grown annoyed with being made to feel small, dwarfed in their own lack of knowledge; Zayn, Liam now realizes, has been doing a remarkably good job of keeping up with Harry. He doesn’t get annoyed, simply remains sort of indifferent, occasionally throwing in a casual remark that successfully shuts Harry up. 

Liam has always known that Zayn’s smart, but this, he thinks, is on another level.

“Nah,” he finally says. “Don’t reckon we could get fed up with you, as long as you weren’t being like him about it. Knowing stuff is all well and good, but there’s a major difference between telling people stuff so that they can know it and telling people stuff so that they can know that you know it.”

The other three smile at him. “Careful not to let Harry hearing you say such intelligent stuff, Liam,” Louis says. “He’ll be praising you as the next Plato!”

“I might have to grow a beard,” Liam says seriously. “A wise-looking one.”

“Then you’d have more hair on your face than on your head. Ridiculous,” says Niall.

It’s nice, Liam thinks, to be able to tease each other without the threat of Latin hanging over them. It’s nice, but he still misses having normal conversations with Harry.

\--

They’re at a photoshoot. The other four are waiting patiently as Harry gets some of his single shots taken; the patient waiting mostly consists of a restless Louis running circles around Liam, pretending to take fashion shots. “Work it!” he exclaims, as Liam stands stock still, looking rather unsure of himself.

“Come on, Liam, at least strike some sort of pose,” says Niall, between bouts of red-faced laughter at Louis’ antics.

“Give me passion,” says Louis. 

Liam grimaces.

“You’re a free bitch, baby,” Niall quips. 

Liam’s grimace, if possible, becomes even more pronounced.

“Give me rampant intellectualism as a coping mechanism?” Zayn suggests, with a glance to where Harry is posed, lounging across a couch.

“What on earth?” 

“Sorry, random quote that sprang to mind,” Zayn says, laughing in a self-depreciative sort of manner, “Harry’s rubbing off on me, just as I feared, I guess.”

There is a smattering of inappropriate giggling at the words “rubbing off,” and Louis quirks an eyebrow suggestively as he says “Shouldn’t that be Perrie’s job?” 

“Fuck off,” Zayn says fondly, and he and Louis immediately involve themselves in a brief, lighthearted tussle. Louis has got Zayn in a headlock, when Zayn notices that Liam, unlike Niall, is not even slightly amused by their capers, and is instead looking stricken.

“Something wrong, Liam?” he asks.

“Don’t pull those tricks on me,” Louis all but bellows, heedless of the magazine employees’ reproachful gazes. “You won’t win by lulling me into a false sense of security while you talk to Liam!” 

“No, really, Lou, look at him,” says Zayn. “What is it?”

“Intellectualism as a coping mechanism,” Liam says, emphatically.

“Yeah,” says Zayn, as Louis reluctantly releases him. “I already apologized for pulling a Harry, no need to go crazy over it.”

“No,” Liam says insistently. “A coping mechanism! There’s obviously something wrong with Harry! And we’ve just been going around acting annoyed with him. This isn’t intelligence, lads, it’s a cry for help!”

Niall, Louis, and Zayn look at him skeptically. 

“I don’t think it is, Payno,” Louis says, “I think his hipster friends have just poisoned his brain. It was bound to happen eventually. All we can do is hope for a cure.”

“You’d think being in a boyband would be an immediate cure for hipsterishness,” says Niall, “Every day we go on stage and perform songs that are about as far from indie as you can get.”

“He’s probably listening to Belle and Sebastian on the sly, or something,” Louis says. 

“Ha. Way he’s been acting lately, he’s more likely to have been listening to Gregorian chants.”

Their laughter is cut off by Liam glaring at them. “Take this seriously, you guys! What if he’s really upset! I mean, he has had a lot of negative media attention, and he’s just gone through a break up and –”

“Speaking of his ‘breakup,’ how about a fun deal, first person to catch him listening to a hipster song and ask him if he’s finding his peace of mind with an indie record that’s much cooler than Taylor Swift’s gets the good bunk for all of Canada.” 

Liam throws his arms up in despair. “You’ll regret acting like this when I have a heart-to-heart with him and uncover some sort of great suffering deep within.” 

“The only thing I’m currently regretting,” says Zayn, “is quoting that book in your presence.”

\--

“Harry,” Liam begins, cautiously, during a rushed pre-show dinner that night, “I think we should have a talk after the show. If you’re not too tired, that is.” To his surprise, Harry looks delighted at the prospect, rather than wary.

“Good idea, Liam! I’ve been wanting to talk song-writing with you! I was thinking only today about how easy it would be for us to work in a bit of philosophy while still appealing to our demographic!” 

Louis and Niall can’t quite contain their laughter as Liam’s face takes on a look of despair. “No, Harry, that’s – I didn’t mean about song-writing. I meant –”  
“Yes,” says Harry, giving no indication of having heard Liam speak, “I’m excited, too. I’ve just been reading The Symposium, and I think that a lot of the opinions therein could translate beautifully to a number one smash pop music hit about love.” 

Liam sends a desperate glance to the other three boys.

“Er, yes, that could be good,” he says, when it becomes obvious that he’s on his own, “But… but…”

“But you think it would be better to have one song for each of the members of the symposium? Yes, you might have a point, there, Liam. I must say, I’m very glad that you’re so on board with this idea.”

“I’m not –” says Liam, still fumbling for words.

“Went to tell her ‘bout my love, couldn’t speak, yeah my voice I was deprived of – skipped to Eryximachus, ‘cause my hiccups were so raucous, please don’t say I missed my chance, I wanna ask this girl to dance,” Zayn interrupts him, singing jokingly under his breath.

Harry’s eyes shine as he surveys Zayn. “It’s perfect,” he says, clearly completely missing the fact that Zayn had been joking. “Good job, Zayn. I can already tell that the girls will eat it up. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to use the toilet. I’ll be back soon; you lads should just keep spinning some ideas around. See if you can’t think up some lyrics about Pausanias, Niall!” He walks off, turning his head around to beam at them every so often as he makes his way to the restroom. 

“Wow, that conversation went well, Liam,” says Zayn. “I think your concern really got through to him.”

“It would have been fine if you hadn’t made everything worse!” Liam cries, “Why are you encouraging him? You’re not supposed to be helping him to continue with his insanity; you’re supposed to be helping me to curb it!” 

Zayn shrugs. “I dunno, you know I find his newfound culture obsession just as ridiculous as you guys do… but it could be funny, having a single based on Plato.”

“We’re not allowing Harry to subject himself to what is clearly severe mental torture just so that we can have an ‘amusing’ single. I want to talk this over with Harry, and you are going to help me, whether you like it or not.”

From across the table, Louis tosses some chips at Liam’s face. 

“I think he’s a lost cause, mate. Maybe you should try going to the root of the problem.”

“That’s what I’m trying to do! Talk to him about his emotions so I can figure out why this started!”

The other three give him a pitying glance. 

“What?” Liam sighs, exasperatedly.

“We know why it started. That philosophy wanker, Alain de Botton, got to him.”

This is the first Liam has heard of any Alain de Bottons. “Who?” he asks, feeling somewhat left out, and worrying that maybe his bandmates have been frequenting philosophers without him.

“You know. He met him at some party, and de Botton told him he needed to be using his fame to promote culture and whatnot. He’s the one to blame for all of this, I’d wager, and if you want it sorted, maybe you should talk to him.” 

Liam considers this. “Well, I suppose it couldn’t hurt to contact him,” he says, “if only to chastise him for ruining our lives. But I still think that Harry needs to talk about his emotions. He wouldn’t have gone so insane because of one offhand comment from a random guy.”

At this point, Harry makes his reappearance. “Hey guys,” he says, “How about ‘Our souls, split up by Zeus, just waiting for our two halves to form a truce. We’re like Achilles and Patroclus, Alcestis and Admetus.”

His four bandmates blink up at him and try to contort their faces into appreciative looks. Niall is the first to fail, as he says “Achilles and Patroclus. Aren’t they cousins, though?”

“You shouldn’t believe everything you hear in Brad Pitt movies, Niall,” says Harry, scathingly, “they were lovers.”

“I think that would make a great song, Harry,” says Zayn. “And for the music video, you could be Achilles, dressed in drag at the court of Lycomedes.”

Liam turns to fix Zayn with a glare, but Harry’s smile couldn’t be wider. “I can see it now! Zayn, you’re doing very well with the whole creative process thing! I wish the other boys would chip in, though.”

“No, I think this is an endeavour best undertaken by you and Zayn alone, Harry,” says Louis. “He can be your Patroclus.”

“Hmmm, yeah, I don’t think Zayn would make a bad Patroclus –” 

“Nobody is being anybody’s Patroclus!” Liam yells, visibly at the end of his tether. “We’re going to have a conversation after the show, Harry, and it’s going to have nothing to do with mythology, and you aren’t going to speak any Latin. We’re just going to talk about you and your emotions, and if anyone tries to stand in the way of my intervention, I will… well, I don’t know what I’ll do, but it will be unpleasant.” 

“Liam,” says Harry, shaking his head and smiling patronizingly, “there’s no need for an intervention. I’m simply becoming more learned. Now, come on, boys, we have a concert to get to!”

Liam looks to be on the verge of tears.

“Age, age!” Harry adds in Latin, when none of them make to leave, and Liam allows his head to fall and smack painfully against the table.

“We told you so,” says Niall, not unkindly, as he pats Liam on the head. 

\--

“Boys,” says Harry, later that night, “I’ve been thinking about what Liam said earlier.”

Everyone sits up a little straighter, hardly daring to believe it.

“Maybe I am in need of an intervention.”

The four other boys exchange tense glances, just waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“While I’ve been broadening my mind and delving into culture, I have been excluding you four from my life, somewhat. That is not what I had intended in the slightest.”

Liam nods appreciatively. Harry is about to let them in, he’s sure of it. He’ll discuss what’s been going on, and then everything can go back to normal. The other three boys are not so certain, and continue to look at Harry in trepidation.

“Too often, of late, I have gone off on my own whenever I am not on stage with you. I allowed myself to become immersed in my readings. Permit me to say that it was never my intention to ostracize any of you. Friends, as many a philosopher would say, are perhaps the key to happiness. As Epicurus once said, ‘we should look for someone to eat and drink with before looking for something to eat and drink, for dining alone is leading the life of a lion or wolf.’”

There is a chorus of groans from the boys, as they realize that this might not turn out to be quite the intervention Liam had in mind.

“It is because of this that I have decided to welcome you into my world. To teach you as I, myself, begin to learn. Boys, we have a day off tomorrow, and I have booked us tickets to a play.”

There is silence as Harry looks at them eagerly, perhaps awaiting a whoop of excitement, or a joyous hug from one of his bandmates. 

“How… thoughtful,” says Niall, eventually.

“Please excuse – I need to go,” says Liam, sounding overwhelmed.

“Okay!” Harry calls after him, tone shamelessly devoid of any worry, “The play’s a matinee, so be ready to leave at around noon tomorrow!”

“What play are we going to, anyway?” Louis asks, when Liam has disappeared from view.

“Lysistrata,” says Harry reverently. 

Zayn makes a coughing noise that sounds suspiciously like laughter.

“Know what it’s about?” he asks.

“No, but I’ve heard it’s brilliant,” says Harry.

\--

“You could have told us, you little shit,” Louis tells Zayn, after they’ve finished watching the play.

“What do you mean?” Zayn’s scrolling through his phone, clearly unbothered by Louis’ wrath.

“Don’t play innocent, Zayn, you knew what Lysistrata was about. You were laughing when Harry said that that was what we were going to be seeing yesterday.”

“And what would you have had me say?” Zayn asks idly, “Prepare yourselves, boys: Lysistrata is a couple of hours of men wandering around with gigantic erections while women refuse to have sex with them.”

Liam starts coughing uncontrollably. Harry gives him an enthusiastic slap on the back.

“I thought it was wonderful!” Harry says. “Did no one else enjoy it? I mean, yes, okay, there were the erections… but once you got past the initial shock, surely you, like me, were able to appreciate such a humorous take on war.”

“It was very – yeah,” says Louis. 

“Maybe we could have a Lysistrata song on the next album,” says Niall sarcastically.

“There’s a thought!” Harry exclaims, oblivious to Niall’s tone, “It’s nice to see you finally taking some initiative in our philosophy-themed album… Wow, this night out has clearly had the desired effect, it’s great to see you guys actually taking an interest for once!”

Niall’s expression turns immediately panicked and apologetic; Liam’s complexion has gone ashen.

“I foresee many more ancient plays in our future,” Harry says.

\--

It’s during one of their breaks between the different legs of the tour that Harry decides that he’s going to try to adopt certain elements of the lifestyle of someone from the ancient world.

He sends the boys a text demanding that they call him “Harrius” forevermore; he drinks a lot of wine; he writes atrocious song lyrics about Greek gods and goddesses, all of them in dactylic hexameter. 

The worst of it, however, comes when Harry takes it upon himself to break into Zayn’s house.

“Zayn,” he says, once he’s searched the entire place and found Zayn mostly asleep in his bedroom, “I really think that we ought to have sex.”

Zayn pulls a pillow over his head.

“Oh,” comments Perrie, who is lying beside Zayn, immersed in a book. “Were you thinking of a threesome? Or would you like me to leave?”

Harry doesn’t spare her so much as a glance. “Yeah, if you could, actually, cheers. It’s probably better if you’re not here.” He yanks the pillow off of Zayn’s head. 

Zayn groans sleepily. “It’s only noon, Harry, bugger off. We can have sex at a decent hour.”

“Can we really? And it’s Harrius, Zayn.”

“No,” says Zayn, now grabbing at his blanket in a renewed attempt to cover his face. “Why do you even want to have sex with me?”

“All of the other boys refused,” says Harry earnestly. “They acted as though I’d asked them something completely unreasonable.”

“Thanks, yeah, now I’m definitely going to have sex with you, now I know that I was a last resort. Also, you can hardly fault them for that. Why would you even think they’d say yes?”

“Well it’s not like it’s that bizarre, or anything,” says Harry, “Homosexual relationships were quite common in Ancient Greece, even for people who were married to women. It’s hardly as though any of you guys’ girlfriends should be an issue here. Speaking of which, Perrie, why haven’t you left yet?”

“Don’t be a dick, Haz. Perrie’s not going anywhere. Also, yeah, did you stop to consider we aren’t in Ancient Greece? And maybe that’s why none of us will have sex with you?”

“Zayn,” says Harry. “Come on. We agreed as a band that we were going to try to be more cultural. It’s obvious that I’m doing my part better than any of you.”

Zayn exhales heavily, before sitting up and rubbing at his eyes. Realizing that he’s not going to get anywhere with the “we are not in Ancient Greece” argument, he changes tactics.

“You’ve got to see it from their perspective, Haz,” he says. “We’re all basically the same age as you. Most of the homosexual relationships in Ancient Greece were between an older male and a significantly younger male. It’s not really… I mean, it’s not that they aren’t embracing the culture, Harry. They just are probably holding out for a homosexual relationship with someone who isn’t the same age as them. You should, too, Harry. You can be Alcibiades. I believe that your Socrates is out there, but he isn’t any of One Direction.”

Harry’s face takes on a look of dawning comprehension. “No wonder Liam looked so horrified,” he says. Zayn takes a brief moment to laugh internally at the thought of Liam’s reaction when Harry had propositioned him.

“Don’t be so hard on yourself, young Harrius,” says Zayn. “We’re all new to the Ancient Greece thing. Now get out and let me sleep.”

“Alright, yes,” says Harry. “I’ll just go find my Socrates. And I have a pretty good idea that I know exactly who he is.”

Harry leaves Zayn’s bedroom.

“Sorry about that,” Zayn mutters, although Perrie doesn’t look especially bothered.

“That’s alright,” she says mildly, continuing to read her book, and then, “Liam’s going to be mad at you if Harry’s in the press for having had sex with some old man.”

“Oh well,” says Zayn, “at least I’ll have got some sleep.”

\--

Liam knows that the other boys like to take advantage of their time off to catch up on some well-needed sleep. Sometimes he wishes that he could do the same, however often finds himself unable to kick the habit of waking up early. With all of the other boys mostly asleep in the mornings, he tries to busy himself with the things that he doesn’t have time to do when on tour; he goes for runs or practices piano or replies to fans on twitter. 

Today, however, he feels like having a little bit of a lazy morning; on a whim, he decides to put on Nick Grimshaw’s radio show while eating a spot of breakfast. He is perhaps a little more surprised than he ought to be when he hears Harry’s voice.

“And of course, as I’m sure you know, I’ve been on a bit of a culture kick lately,” Harry is saying, “and I was thinking that I needed to explore some of the sorts of relationships that would have existed in Ancient Greece.” 

Liam thinks back to yesterday, when Harry had turned up at his house demanding sex and his heart slowly fills with dread. 

“I mean, yes, there are homosexual relationships nowadays. Of course there are,” Harry says. Liam thinks that he might start crying, and yet somehow cannot bring himself to turn off the radio.

“Believe me,” says Nick. “I know.”

“But it’s not quite the same as it was in Ancient Greece, back in the good old days. And the other day I was talking to Zayn, and he thought that I should perhaps try to go for a sort of Alcibiades and Socrates deal.”

Liam pulls out his phone and not-so-casually fires off a few quick text messages to Zayn, each increasingly threatening in nature.

“Ahhhh,” Nick Grimshaw is saying, “A little bit of a teacher/pupil thing going on. I’m surprised you didn’t think of that first, Harrius. After all, we all know that you tend to go for someone a little older.”

Harry laughs obligingly.

“Alright, then,” Nick continues, “and, surely, when Zayn Malik was saying this, you immediately thought of myself, your older, role-model-type figure.”

“You did spring to mind,” Harry confirms.

“You thought that I could be Socrates, corrupting you, and then your fans, all the lovely little One Direction fans, could come after me and arrange a lynching.”

“Yes,” Harry agrees, “the thought had occurred to me.”

“And Finchy – poor Radio One Breakfast Show producer, Matt Fincham, – would be Plato, forever dedicating his life to writing my biography.”

“I wouldn’t write your biography,” interjects Matt Fincham.

“It’s settled, then?” says Nick, ignoring him. “I’m Socrates? I might have to give up the Breakfast Show if that’s the case, and just sort of bum around spouting philosophical stuff to anyone who’ll listen.”

“No, actually,” says Harry. “While you were the first person I thought of, I’ve since decided that Alain – you know, Alain de Botton – would be more suitable.”  
Liam chokes on the bite of apple he’d been swallowing.

“So this is your official offer for Mr. de Botton, then,” says Nick, as though Harry had not succumbed to madness.

“I guess so,” says Harry, “I mean, I forgot to grab his number, but hopefully this will get round to him somehow. If he’s looking, I’m offering.”

“Who let him out in public,” Liam questions his empty house in desperation.

“Well, that’s about all that Harrius has time for,” says Nick. “I’m sure we all wish him the best of luck with his latest potential conquest!”

“Domi maneas paresque nobis novem continuas fututiones,” says Harry suggestively, “and to everyone else, I hope you have a lovely morning!”

Liam turns off the radio and prepares himself to kill Zayn Malik.

\--

Liam does not kill Zayn. Instead, he texts all of his bandmates, telling them to come over to his house immediately for an emergency band meeting. “Wear togas,” he tacks on as an afterthought, in an attempt to ensure Harry’s attendance.

Unsurprisingly, Harry and Louis are the only ones wearing togas when they show up.

“This is fun,” says Louis. “We should wear these on stage.”

“No,” says everyone except Harry, who is looking affronted at the sight of the jeans and t-shirt clad Niall, Liam, and Zayn.

“Where are your togas?” he exclaims.

“Couldn’t find one,” says Niall, feigning regret. “I texted you asking if you had a spare, did you not get it?”

Harry glances at his phone. “No, but – ohhhhh.”

“What is it?” 

“A tweet from Alain de Botton! Oh, this is exciting.”

There is a brief pause as each boy debates whether or not it’s worth the pain of asking. They’re saved from making a decision when Harry tells them, unprompted. 

“He says – oh damn. It says ‘Good to see you taking an initiative, but you’re lucky my wife doesn’t speak Latin.’”

“What did you say to him in Latin?” Liam asks apprehensively, not at all sure that he wants to know.

Harry coughs slightly and his cheeks turn a bit red. It’s the first time since all of this started that any of them have seen Harry look embarrassed. “Um, I said ‘Domi maneas paresque nobis novem continuas fututiones,’ he eventually mumbles.

“Yeah,” says Niall impatiently, “but what is that in English?”

“Uh,” he says, his voice barely audible, “Uh, it means ‘stay home and prepare us nine whole uninterrupted fuckfests.’”

For a moment, the silence is palpable. Then –

“Alright, man!” cries Niall, punching Harry in the shoulder. “Who knew Latin could be so great? I’m wishing I had learned it now!”

Louis and Zayn look equally as appreciative as Niall. Liam sends everyone a glare full of reproach.

“He is married, Harry,” Liam says, through gritted teeth. “You absolutely cannot have nine uninterrupted fuckfests with him. In fact, you can’t have any fuckfests with him, unless his wife is also present and taking part. And even then, I’d recommend that you didn’t.”

“It’s chill, Liam,” says Zayn humorously, “Hasn’t Haz told you that wives are no reason not to pursue a homosexual relationship in Ancient Greece?”

“We are not,” says Liam, voice seething with annoyance, “in Ancient Greece. And don’t push your luck; I am already very angry with you.”

“What did Zayn ever do?” says Louis.

“He – he told Harry that he should have sex with older men!”

Zayn doesn’t even bother to look abashed. “I was trying to sleep,” he says. “It didn’t seem like a bad idea at the time.”

“Obviously it was a bad idea! Now he’s going to be going around having trysts with the elderly, as he desperately seeks enlightenment!”

“Hey!” says Harry indignantly, “Alain is not elderly. He’s only 43. The perfect age, if you ask me.”

Liam does not respond to this.

“He’ll be trying to initiate orgies, next, Zayn! And do you know who he’ll expect to take part? ME! And YOU! And probably Perrie, too, so have fun explaining that to her!”

“I don’t think Perrie would mind too much, actually,” says Zayn nonchalantly, “but Harry’s already talked to her about sex and indicated that he’s not interested in having her involved, so. I’d say she’s safe.” 

Liam growls at him.

“Don’t blame Zayn,” says Harry. “I was thinking about Alain before Zayn even mentioned Alcibiades and Socrates.”

The room freezes. Even Zayn manages to look surprised at this revelation.

“Thinking about him… in what sense?” says Louis. “In that sense? Or in a ‘he’s the annoying wanker that got me hooked on culture’ sense?”

“He’s not a wanker!” Harry says. “I. Well. I. I suppose I might as well just come out and admit it. I maybe don’t know quite as much about culture as I’ve been letting on.”

Zayn snorts, as though this news comes as no surprise to him.

“I know that this is a bit of a shocking admission,” says Harry, mistaking Zayn’s snort of derision for a noise of astonishment, “but it’s true. I’ve been pretending all along. Memorising bits of Latin, and then waiting for my chance to use one of the few phrases I know; googling stuff about mythology, and then spouting it off before I can forget it. I’m a sham.”

Liam, Niall, and Louis are too surprised to speak. Zayn, on the other hand, has no such difficulty.

“But why pretend that it’s interesting to you if it’s not? To what end?” he asks.

Harry glances about shiftily. “To impress Alain,” he says quietly.

“But… why should that matter?” says Niall, regaining the ability to speak. “He’s just some philosophy tosser. You could have left it at that dumb Socrates tweet and never thought about him again.”

There is an expectant silence that grows and grows as Harry shuffles about, cheeks crimson. Then there is a gasp of comprehension.

“You fancy him!” says Louis. 

“No way,” Niall replies. “He can’t do.”

“No, it’s obvious!” Louis is now jumping around gleefully, convinced that he is right. “He’s got a crush on this philosophy bloke and he’s trying to act more sophisticated so that he’ll want him back!”

Harry makes no move to deny this.

“But why,” says Liam, “Why did you have to act like that around us? It’s not like this de Botton guy is on tour with us, or like any of us were reporting back to him, going ‘Oh yeah, our mutual mate, Harry, whoa, he’s become well cultured since he last spoke to you.’”

“Practice?” Harry suggests. Liam looks like he might strangle him.

“Did you not realize that we all wanted to strangle you?” says Louis conversationally, as though reading Liam’s mind.

“I just. I am sorry guys, but I haven’t been able to think straight lately,” Harry says, tone apologetic. Louis doesn’t quite manage to turn his laugh at the word ‘straight’ into a convincing cough.

“There was this look on his face when I was being introduced to him, when he found out that I was a popstar, and I just haven’t been able to get that look out of my head. I don’t know why, but it really made me want to be more than what I am. So maybe I’ve been a bit ridiculous. I guess it doesn’t matter anymore; if he’s got a wife, he’s not going to look twice at some 18 year old boybander, so I’d be better off just to let it go.”

For the first time that day, Liam looks sympathetic.

“Oh, Haz,” he says. “I’m so sorry. I’m sure we didn’t make it much easier on you, treating you like an annoyance.”

“Actually,” says Harry, “I think I was too wrapped up in my own head to even notice how much everything was affecting you guys. I deserved the treatment that I received. I can’t believe I solicited all of you for sex.”

“Neither can I,” Niall grouses. 

“I hope that you can forgive me,” Harry says, still smiling sheepishly.

“There’s nothing to forgive,” Liam replies automatically.

 

“Yeah, we’re cool.” Louis says, Niall nodding along agreeably.

“Zayn?” Harry asks. 

Zayn eyes him contemplatively. 

“If the gods will really grant a happier old age,” he quips, “there’s hope that we’ll escape our trials at last.”

Harry grins.

Liam smacks him hard upside the head.

\--

“But what I’m still wondering,” says Louis, a few days later, “is how Zayn already knew so much about all the shit Harry was obsessing over. Zayn, are you secretly in love with Alain de Botton, too?”

“You caught me,” says Zayn. “He had me at ‘Must being in love always mean being in pain?’”

“What is that from one of his essays, or something?”

“Yes,” Zayn and Harry say in unison.

“See, that’s what I mean, Zayn. How are you able to quote his essays? And make up stupid lyrics that have to do with the Symposium? I mean, where are you getting all of this information? If you’re faking it, like Harry was, then you’re doing a way better job.”

Zayn shrugs and moves over to hook his chin on Niall’s shoulder. “Dunno,” he says. “I guess I just read stuff. I promise I’m not in love with any eccentrics.”

“Perrie is a bit of an eccentric,” says Harry. 

“I don’t understand what you have against her,” says Zayn, insouciantly. 

“I don’t have anything against her!” 

“You didn’t want to have sex with her, though,” Zayn replies.

Harry flashes him a defensive scowl. “Of course I didn’t! She’s your girlfriend!” 

“And yet, you had no qualms about going after her boyfriend.”

“Can’t we just drop this? Please? Can we forget that these past couple of months ever happened?” Harry pleads.

“But Harry,” says Niall. “I’ve booked us tickets to a play. Oedipus Rex.”

“What?” Harry groans.

“I did, too,” sighs Louis. “I got us tickets to ‘The Birds.’ It’s by the same guy who did Lysistrata, so I thought you’d like it!” 

“Why would I like that!?” Harry says. “I told you I was done with all that! I’m trying to get over Alain, not have some sort of culture relapse.”

“I’m sorry, Harry,” says Liam, “but you did say that you foresaw many ancient plays in our future.”

“Why are all of my friends so awful?” Harry moans to himself.

“We’re just vying for a bit of culture, Harrius,” smirks Louis. “I am very much saddened at how little I know about the ancient past. The modern age… o saeclum insapiens et infacetum!”

Harry buries his face in his hands as his bandmates begin to singsong. 

“Our souls, split up by Zeus, just waiting for our two halves to form a truce!”

Harry pulls out his phone. “L’enfer,” he types, listening to his bandmates messing about, “c’est les autres.” 

He hits send.

**Author's Note:**

> Whoever said that a major in Humanities was useless? I bet they're eating their words now. Ha ha ha. This is definitely the most self-indulgent thing I've ever written, but I hope that you liked it anyway.


End file.
